Satisfied with the piece, Roman had to practice until he could do it in less than three minutes. When that didn’t work, he bought butcher paper, masking tape, and scissors, and made a stencil. When he had everything ready, he walked the streets to find a place to put up his piece. He chose a wall near the Piazza del Risorgimento, and Sunday just before dawn to do it. He put on his black jeans, T-shirt, hoodie, and gloves. He grabbed his gear.
A window slid open with a bang as he taped the stencil to the wall. He kept his head down, his face hidden, as he pulled out the cans of spray paint and went to work. He finished in under three minutes, removed the stencil. He heard someone laughing as he stowed his gear and took off running.
He didn’t think his graffiti would last a day, and he felt a rush of satisfaction when it was still there three days later. When a college student at the guesthouse said he’d go back to New York City if he had the money for a return ticket, Roman offered to buy the guy’s motorcycle for the price of one seat in economy class. The two storage compartments on the bike were more than enough for what little he’d brought with him.
Roman drove north to Florence. He stayed a month, then moved on to Venice. The summer heat made the air taste like sludge, and crowds of tourists jammed the city. Roman headed for the Swiss Alps.
In every city where he spent more than a day, Roman left a statement behind, a piece of graffiti to speak to the masses. He’d been traveling around Europe for three months when an idea fixed itself in his head, a challenge that would land him in a French jail—or gain notoriety for the Bird. He headed for Paris.
He spent three full days at the Louvre, haunting the halls, feasting on the art. He watched the guards, checked out the placement of security cameras, timed distances, memorized corridors, floors, and hallways. He bought slacks, a white shirt, a trench coat, and a fedora, then went back to buy a large book on Renaissance art and a canvas bag with the museum logo.
When Roman had his plan and everything he needed to pull it off, he did his first oil painting on an eight-by-ten-inch canvas—an owl on a pine branch, one eye open, the other closed, its beak a smug smile. He signed BRD in small bubble letters in the bottom right corner. He bought a gilded frame and museum wax.
On his last day in Paris, Roman went back to the Louvre. He looked like any one of a hundred other well-dressed visitors perusing the masterpieces in the hallowed halls of the world-famous museum. He wore the fedora pulled forward and down to obscure his face from security cameras. He paused here and there, pretending interest in a painting or plaque, while savoring the adrenaline rush.
Roman knew exactly where he was going and had the timing down to the minute. It took less than that to take his painting from the museum shop bag and press it on the wall space next to an oil of two hunting dogs. Skin prickling, he felt a guard looking his way. Roman shifted the museum shop bag as though the book inside had become heavy. The guard lost interest. Roman stayed for another minute, smirking. He took his time leaving the hall. The guard walked right by his painting without noticing it. Chuckling, Roman left, wondering how long it would take for the staff to realize something didn’t belong.
GRACE BARELY SPOKE with Roman over the next few days. He worked as though chained to his drafting table. She’d never seen anyone so obsessed. Did he enjoy the work that much, or did he simply want to put the project behind him so he could move on to the paintings still on the easels, the ones Talia was eager to add to the others Roman had finished for the show she wanted to schedule?
She wondered if he’d eaten anything in the last few days, until she’d seen the frozen dinner boxes and tinfoil trays stuffed in the garbage can under the counter. Grace reminded herself Roman’s private life was none of her business, and felt her conscience nagging her. Shouldn’t a personal assistant be concerned about the health of her boss? Grace headed down the hall and went upstairs to the studio. She stood in the doorway, but Roman looked immersed in his work. He also looked like he had a blinding headache. “Can I get you anything?”
Frowning, he rubbed his forehead. “More coffee.”
“You probably have a headache because you haven’t eaten all day. You can’t live on caffeine, Roman. I can make you a sandwich.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Well, that was easy. “Do you want it delivered or at the counter?” The man didn’t have a dining table, unless he counted the one on the patio. It was too cold, and the wind was up, so that wouldn’t do.
Roman tossed his ink pen into a tray. “I need a break.” Standing, he stretched, the T-shirt pulling taut over his muscled chest. “I’m beginning to see zebra stripes everywhere.”